


Flame Follows Smoke

by honey_wheeler



Series: City of Illusions [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gladiator AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He seems to like it when she’s in gold and jewels. Nothing but gold and jewels.</p>
<p>Not that he doesn’t seem to like her in all ways; Sansa’s experience may be a bit limited, but she can tell when a man desires her, and there has not been a state of dress or undress that hasn’t made Jon look at her with frank appreciation and need. Wrapped toe to chin in palla and stola or entirely bare, or anywhere in between, Jon has responded to her with equal fervor. But there seems to be something unhinged in him when she wears only ornaments, something primal and barely leashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flame Follows Smoke

He seems to like it when she’s in gold and jewels. Nothing but gold and jewels.

Not that he doesn’t seem to like her in all ways; Sansa’s experience may be a bit limited, but she can tell when a man desires her, and there has not been a state of dress or undress that hasn’t made Jon look at her with frank appreciation and need. Wrapped toe to chin in palla and stola or entirely bare, or anywhere in between, Jon has responded to her with equal fervor. But there seems to be something unhinged in him when she wears only ornaments, something primal and barely leashed.

She discovers it by accident. Most days she dresses simply before visiting him, in plain gowns with little ornamentation; it still stings, somewhat, the memory of that first visit, when he’d spit names at her and taken in her finery with barely concealed contempt. But even wearing the simplest items, she still takes care with her clothing, removing her stola and folding it neatly each time, so that she may return to her world afterwards with none the wiser, removing even the simple bangles and chains she still sometimes wears and setting them neatly atop the fabric. Something in her wants to go to him bare, with no vestige of the everyday life she leaves behind as soon as she steps into this room to mar her time with him. The day she’d gone to him after he’d fought, though, she’d felt such urgency, such a desperate need for haste, that she’d gone to his cell as soon as she could get free of Joffrey, rushing to the barracks in all the jewels and finery she’d worn at the arena that afternoon. She’d removed nothing before climbing into his lap, her necklace heavy against her collarbones, her rings biting into her fingers with the force of her grasp as she clutched and pulled at him. His hands had fisted and tangled in her garments as he clutched and pulled at her in return, rocking her hips against him with a rhythm bordering on frantic.

She’s not sure now when she’d decided she would not return to the palace that night. Perhaps the moment she’d walked into his cell. She couldn’t, at any rate, not with her clothing stained with dirt and blood as it was. Most days she visited him, she would have been rising by then, dressing and preparing to leave as he watched her from his pallet. That day she’d risen to pour water from a pitcher into a basin on his small table, then shrugged out of her stola. Keenly aware of her nudity, she carefully twisted her stola into a rope and coiled it in the basin, nudging each fold of cloth beneath the water to soak. She felt his eyes on her as she worked, his presence in the room nearly overwhelming in a way it hadn’t been all those nights she dressed under his watchful eyes to return home. He’d clearly known she wouldn’t leave that night as well, possibly before she did.

He’d fucked her again, then, pulling her down fist over fist by the length of necklace that dangled between her breasts. She was already wet and ready for him, from no more than his eyes on her as she’d set her gown to soak. Then, when she’d come in a rolling shudder, he’d flipped her to her belly, her cheek against the rough-spun mattress, hands fisted in the ticking as he parted her thighs with his knees and canted her hips up with a hand beneath her to allow him entrance. His breath was hot on her neck, his voice rough and low as he chanted endearments and desires as crude as they were sweet, each word punctuated by the circle and stroke of his fingers at the apex of her thighs until she was half-wild. The necklace tangled in his teeth when he bit at her neck, claiming her as his mate, spilling inside her to mark her as his own.

It’s never failed after that. Sansa has tried variations, and each has spurred him to a deeper need, his eyes roving over her body only slightly less than his hands. He’s bitten the flesh of her fingers above the bands of her rings, followed the path of her necklaces with lips and tongue, tugged at bracelets to raise her hands to his body, encouraging her to touch him in every way she could imagine. The day she wears a gold chain around her waist beneath her stola, he bends her forward and fucks her against the wall with the stola still in a puddle around her feet, his hands over hers against the rough stone.

“Is it because they’re from Joffrey?” she asks one day, giving voice to the thoughts that have been forming and bubbling in her mind for the past weeks. He’s startled by the suddenness of the question, confused by the meaning. “The jewels. Is it some sort of symbolic possession? Claiming me while I’m wearing his tokens?”

“Claiming you…” Jon echoes, pushing up on one elbow to look at her as she sits on the edge of his cot.

“They seem to…affect you greatly,” she says, fighting the blush she feels blooming in her cheeks, some strange vestige of a more innocent life, a life before him.

“Do they?” he asks, cautiously.

“You certainly seem more vigorous when I leave them on while we fuck,” she tells him, liking the mild surprise on his face at her directness.

“And you think it is because I enjoy taking what’s his.” Sansa shrugs, a bit uncomfortable with how Jon phrased it. She’d not meant to make it sound so callous or so mercenary. Then it’s his turn to shrug. “I suppose there could be something to that. Perhaps most men would feel a sense of satisfaction at having you when the Emperor believes you to be only his. That would only be heightened when you wear his chains.”

“They’re not all his chains,” Sansa snaps, stung despite herself. “Some are my own. And he does not own me.” She fights the urge to slap Jon’s hand away when he reaches for the necklace she wears now, one so long it nearly brushes her thighs as she sits, bare but for that long chain of gold and stone.

“I said most men,” he tells her, his voice warm with affection, with love, with more love that she thinks she might deserve in her darker moments.

“But not you?”

“I’m afraid my interest is more primitive than that. I like the look of them on you. I like the look of you in them.” He sits up then, his chin resting on her shoulder, his arm around her back to curve over the opposite hip in a gesture that’s frankly possessive. “I wish I could give you chains of my own.” His lips unerringly find the sensitive spot behind her ear. He traces a delicate spiral with the tip of his tongue, an appreciative rumble sounding in her ear when she shivers in response. There is so much she wants to say to him, but it seems inadequate. How could mere words encompass what she feels?

Instead she twists in his hold until she faces him, the tips of her breasts grazing his chest so that his shiver matches her own. It takes little encouragement for him to pull her astride him, his cock hard against her belly. Taking the necklace in hand, she loops it around his neck as well, then once more, until he must fit himself closely against her or break it. She watches him as she reaches down to circle one hand around him, to guide him inside her, their faces so close that his almost breaks apart into separate pieces in her view as he fucks her until they’re both sweaty and panting, the chain digging into the back of her neck.

“My chains are yours,” she tells him, eyes fixed on his as his are on hers. He groans at that, his mouth swallowing hers in a kiss that’s nearly brutal for how much passion it contains. She’ll be bruised come the morrow; she’ll have to beg sick and stay in her chambers for the day, keeping out of Joffrey’s sight. She doesn’t care. She knows where she belongs right now and it’s with Jon.


End file.
